Requiem in Steele Major
by Madeleine Gilbert
Summary: S5, intra-"SWAK2"; prequel to Steele Inseparable series & Pt. 5. How on earth did Steele and Laura progress from Daniel's death and their mutual suspicion and semi-hostility to his carrying her upstairs to make love?
1. Chapter 1

STEELE INSEPARABLE V: Requiem in Steele Major

AUTHOR: Madeleine Gilbert

SYNOPSIS: S5 continuation, intra-"SWAK2". How on earth did Steele and Laura progress from Daniel's death and their mutual suspicion and semi-hostility to his carrying her upstairs to make love?

PREQUEL TO: Part I, "Steele in Perspective'; Part II, "Steele-In-Law"; Part III, "Ancestral Steele"; Part IV, "Steele in the Shadows"

SHARES A UNIVERSE WITH: "Notoriously, Steele"

DISCLAIMER: This story is not for profit and is purely for entertainment purposes. The author does not own the rights to these characters and is not now, nor ever has been, affiliated in any way with _Remington Steele_, its producers, its actors and their agents, MTM productions, the NBC television network, or with any station or network carrying the show in syndication.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: What happened in the interval between the scene in "SWAK2" where Steele exclaimed of the caskets, "We'll take all three," and the one that finds Steele and Laura watching the televised report of Daniel's funeral? A lot _should_ have happened, because the writers left so many questions up in the air. How did the three coffins make it to the correct destinations? Why didn't Steele attend Daniel's funeral in London? Why was the funeral important enough to be reported on Irish TV? And the biggest one of all: after a week of alternating between fighting and virtually ignoring one another, and never discussing what was wrong between them, how did Steele and Laura smooth it over enough to consummate their relationship at last?

It's a largely undeveloped slice of their story. Here's my exploration of it.

* * *

Part 1

On a chilly afternoon in May—the coldest May in recent memory, the television weathermen had been dubbing it for a week—an odd procession was drawing to its climax at Ashford Castle, Glen Creagh, Ireland.

In the sweeping ribbon of driveway before the castle, three hearses parked. From the interior of the house, three caskets, carried out in rapid succession.

The unwieldy burdens deposited and the hearses secured, one of the bearers approached a group at the bottom of the entrance steps. "Mr. Steele? Might I ask you to sign here? And here—and here--"

From her position beside him, Laura Holt waited and watched while the man she called Remington Steele accepted the clipboard that Niall Donegal, of Donegal & Sons, Morticians, Dublin, held out to him and began to scrawl his signature on the forms it contained.

Waited for his normally expressive face to break out of the stern lines into which it was set. It didn't.

Watched to see whether he would catch her eye.

He didn't.

"Thanks," he said to Donegal. "We'll see you in Dublin, then. Around half past five? A couple of gentlemen will be joining us. Secretary Peterborough from the British embassy, and---?" Here he broke off with an inquiring glance at Marissa Peters, who was on his left.

"Secretary Spaulding from the U.S. embassy," Marissa supplied.

"Right. We'll be ready, sir." Donegal took back his clipboard and pen.

With the administrative details out of the way, action resumed. Drivers started their engines; the hearses began to roll slowly along the driveway towards the main gate.

The group by the steps stood straight and silent in the cortege's wake. Steele's gaze, Laura saw, was fixed on the lead car. It was the one that held the coffin in which Daniel Chalmers' body lay. If the rest of Steele's plan succeeded, this would be the only element of formal obsequies with which he'd be able to honor the old man.

She slipped her hand into the crook of Steele's elbow and moved a step nearer to him.

Once the line of hearses had made a right turn onto the road that led to Dublin and passed out of sight, Marissa Peters said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Steele. Were you and Daniel very close?"

It took him a second to turn his attention from the now-empty road. "Very," he said briefly. "Let's plan on leaving for Dublin with Fitch and Kemodov in about an hour. Could I prevail on you to entertain Secretary Kemodov in the meantime? The last thing we need is a sudden change of heart on his part."

"Of course." And Marissa turned composedly towards the castle.

One by one the members of the Steele agency followed her: Mildred, who had been hanging a little behind the others, Laura next, and Steele last of all.

It was as Laura slowed a half-step to wait for him that his eyes met hers for the first time. What she saw in them made her falter so that he passed by and preceded her inside.

Beneath his daze of shock, of grief, smoldered another expression, one she recognized all too well.

Steele was furious.

* * *

It had happened so fast, Laura thought.

It was only last night that Daniel had unwillingly surrendered the secret that Steele was his son. Only last night that he'd outmaneuvered her like the old tap dancer he'd claimed to be and avoided confessing it to Steele. And it was only this morning—a few hours ago, at the Soviet Embassy in Dublin—that she'd castigated him for that, even pronounced an epitaph for him. She'd told him he was cowardly, pathetic, not a fit father for Steele, that Steele was better off without him. Rest in peace, she'd said.

It was simultaneously eerie and mortifying to realize those would be her final words to him.

But he'd seemed perfectly well! She ought to know, since she'd been tracking him in Dublin for most of the morning, having spent the bulk of last night—when she might otherwise have been, with any luck, in Steele's arms—watching for him outside Ashford Castle's garages. Whatever Daniel and Marissa Peters were doing with the Soviets, he was pulling it off with his usual aplomb. Maybe he'd lost a step or two, maybe his reaction time was a fraction of a second off, but only someone who knew him very well would've noticed. His color was good, his carriage as erect and graceful as ever, and she'd seen no repeat of the coughing fit she'd witnessed last night in his bedroom.

There was no sign in their last encounter of the anguished father he'd claimed to be, either. Annoyance, impatience, resentment: those were what she'd sensed from him. The emotions they always managed to arouse in each other, in other words. The mix had only strengthened her suspicion that he'd again pulled the wool over her eyes in some way she didn't understand.

So she didn't regret saying what she had. In fact, her only regret was that she'd gotten sidetracked at the embassy by the drama swirling around Kemodov and Roselli. Otherwise she would have been at the castle with Steele during one of the darkest moments of his life.

By the time she'd arrived on the scene it was already over. She was too familiar with death not to grasp instantly that Daniel was gone. Other clues--the glass of wine in Steele's hand, the positions of the two men, facing each other--told her that Daniel had revealed the truth before he died.

But there was no opportunity to confirm the impression. The butler, Mikeline O'Flynn, had blundered into the room, sputtering about a delivery of caskets. And she and Steele had been swept into another stream of events entirely, starting with the search for the source of the gunfire that had exploded from somewhere within the castle and ending with the conundrum of three empty coffins in a ground-floor storeroom.

Throughout, Steele had persisted in the taut, strained look of a man who was relying on a massive expenditure of will to hold himself together. It had hurt Laura's heart to see it. The look had lightened only momentarily when Daniel's purpose for the coffins had dawned on him. But grief hadn't hampered the marvelously creative workings of Steele's mind, evidenced by the details of his plan to bring the double agent Sterling Fitch to justice.

He had gathered the principals in the drama in the dining room and laid it out for them. "The main objective's simple, really. We've got to distract the Soviets long enough to transfer Fitch into British hands while at the same time saving Secretary Kemodov from a traitor's fate." He glanced across the table at Kemodov, who, untrustworthy though he was, couldn't be excluded from the process. "Assuming defection's still the path you want to take."

"Want to take?" Kemodov scowled. "_Nyet_. _Must_ take, because of her--" he indicated Marissa "—and your Mr. Chalmers. I have no other choice." His eyes, sharp with suspicion, had traveled the faces around him, coming to rest on Laura. "You said earlier that the plan was to kill me."

"My wife was speaking figuratively, Comrade" replied Steele. "We're not in the habit of committing cold-blooded murder, even of our enemies. But we do have to make your compatriots believe you're dead if we're to smuggle you out of the country."

"That's a tall order. What've you got up your sleeve, chief?" Mildred asked.

"The news of the secretary's demise delivered to his embassy by an official source…followed by a viewing of the corpse."

Laura studied her partner's profile. "How official are we talking here?"

"The highest ranking American in Ireland."

"The ambassador?"

"If we can manage it. Marissa, perhaps you can help us with that. Have you or your father any contacts at the American embassy?"

"None that I can think of. But that doesn't mean I can't make some."

As she had with the coffins, Laura had begun to intuit Steele's line of thought. "We'll need someone at the British embassy who can see that Fitch is turned over to the proper authorities."

"Precisely." For a beat it had seemed as if Steele were savoring it, too, that instinctive connection between them, two halves of a single mind operating in harmony. "Marissa, if we could prevail on you--?"

"I'll do my best."

"I've already asked Mikeline for a referral to a Dublin undertaker and he's kindly obliged. Donegal & Sons should be here shortly to take charge of the caskets," said Steele.

"And to provide the viewing of the body?" suggested Laura.

"With sufficient lead time." Eyes narrowed, Steele looked Kemodov over. "How are you at playing dead?"

"I am twenty-five years with the KGB. How do you think?"

"No need to get testy. I was merely inquiring."

After a moment Kemodov's truculence had subsided. "There are ways. It will be enough to fool Comrade Dmytryk, who is sure to be the one they will send to confirm my death."

"Excellent," said Steele.

Mildred had been following the conversation with a puzzled frown. "So the American ambassador tells the Soviets that Kemodov's dead and Kemodov's buddies come and identify him. I still don't get why the three coffins, or how it's gonna help the Italian Stallion."

"The shell game, Mildred, remember?" Laura replied. "The Soviets will want to send Kemodov's body back to Moscow for burial. Meanwhile, the funeral home has two additional overseas shipments to arrange. Colonel Reginald Frobish to London and Daniel Chalmers to America."

"A little sleight of hand when the coffins are sealed, some intentional misdirection when the hearses set off for the airport, and voilà! Kemodov's achieved asylum with the U.S. government, which will no doubt welcome him with the equivalent of a ticker-tape parade…Fitch is taken into custody by the very country he betrayed…and our Antony is proved the honest spy he's always protested he is." The last words were freighted with a sarcasm Steele hadn't bothered to conceal.

"And Daniel's served as a decoy to the Soviets, the way he meant to do for my father," added Marissa.

Mildred's confusion had given way to beaming admiration. "Sometimes your plans flow just like poetry, chief."

"It ain't Wordsworth," conceded Laura, "but it ain't bad." And she'd smiled at Steele.

A smile he hadn't acknowledged. Instead he shoved his chair back and stood up. "We've covered everything, I think. Marissa, there's a private phone in the study on the second floor. Get Mikeline to show you. If you'll all excuse me…"

There'd been no need to ask him where he was going. Laura had guessed his destination before he left them.

Daniel's room. He was spending his final moments with his father.

It was personal insight as much as professional know-how that guided her to look for him there once Donegal & Sons had taken Daniel away.

She'd had no hesitation about going straight to Steele immediately after Daniel's death. Now, unsure of her welcome, she paused just outside the doorway. "Can I come in?"

He didn't glance up from the watch he was turning over and over in his hand. "Why not."

Tentatively she sat down next to him. A fleeting image came to her as she did so, dejà vu, the two of them perched exactly like this at the foot of a motel room bed, Steele taking her hand and closing both of his over it, she tipping her head onto his shoulder. The comfort they'd derived from one other in the face of county officials on the take, falsified documents and murder.

No possibility of that happening today. Though he hadn't shifted a muscle in his position, there was something about him all the same that suggested total withdrawal from her. Her impulse to reach for him died stillborn. Nor could she think of a single thing to say.

He relieved her of the necessity by breaking the silence himself. "You know, don't you?"

So he had registered the remark she'd made in the storeroom, when the delivery man had questioned how Steele could've deduced Daniel's plan with only the coffins to go on. She hadn't been sure until then that he was even listening.

"He admitted it last night."

"Ah, yes. Your conversation on the lawn. The topic was nothing, I believe." His drawl was heavy with irony, his eyes unfriendly. "And how long since you've figured it out?"

"I didn't. I came to confront him about all the skulking around he was doing and found the watch among his things. He broke down and told me. When you saw us, I was trying to convince him to tell you. You know how that turned out. But he did today, didn't he? When I saw you together…" She let the question dangle in the air.

"About two hours before. He was waiting for me in our room—yours and mine, I mean."

"Two hours--? Then you got a chance to spend some time with him."

"Time." Though he didn't actually snort, he might as well have. "I suppose you could call it that."

"Are you angry?"

"I'd have liked to be let in on the secret much sooner, yes."

"It wasn't my story to tell."

"Come now, Laura. Since when have you been so scrupulous about guarding Daniel's privacy? Or mine, for that matter?"

That stung. She made herself count to ten and remember how fresh it all was, devastatingly so. Fewer than three hundred minutes, if you wanted to break it down that way, since he'd discovered who his father was. Fewer than two hundred since his father had died. He was entitled to some slack.

"When it comes to the business, never," she said quietly. "This was personal. And it was his responsibility, not mine. I wouldn't have done it if he asked me to. He and I have never exactly been the best of friends."

"That's putting it mildly, isn't it?"

Again the hard, unsmiling blue glance. She'd never seen him like this before. And she hadn't the first idea how to deal with him.

"Let's try a little honesty for a change, eh?" he went on. "You've always begrudged him the place he has in my life. The influence he has--" here he stumbled verbally and checked himself "—had—over me. If our paths had never crossed again, it would've been too soon for you. Well, you got your wish, didn't you? You won't have to worry about it ever again, him luring me away from life as Remington Steele."

Even before she could wince from the pain of the blow, he was headed for the door. Was there a fraction of a second when his footsteps slowed just a little bit? No, her eyes must have been playing tricks on her. Straight-backed, he strode out of the room.

He went to Dublin without her.

From the ground floor reception hall she watched the castle limo depart via the same route the hearses had taken an hour earlier. There were only three figures visible through the Rolls' rear window. Probably Steele and Marissa, along with the chauffeur, she reasoned. Fitch must've been secreted in the trunk, still bound and gagged, and Kemodov crouched on the floor of the back seat. The glimpse told her all she needed to know about Steele's level of self-control. Clear thinking hadn't deserted him, no matter how turbulently his emotions were churning.

She could've used a little of that clarity herself. A combination of disbelief and hopelessness was steadily depressing her spirits. An analogy came to her: a climber, close to the summit, suddenly hurled back to the bottom of the mountain she'd been scaling.

That was pretty much it. Up in their bedroom, tidying the drawers Roselli had ransacked and unpacking the rest of their clothing, she thought it over. Days of painstaking progress, of working hard to regain the trust and emotional intimacy, and where were she and Steele now? Back to square one. Maybe worse off than that. For even in his deepest throes of jealousy over Tony, Steele had never looked at her, spoken to her, with the tone and expression he'd used in Daniel's bedroom.

Just when she'd finally gotten the Tony situation sorted out! Feeling protective towards Steele because of Daniel's confession, she'd examined her own recent behavior a little more closely. She hadn't much liked what she saw. There was a cliché that perfectly described what she'd been doing, flaunting her attraction to Tony in order to set Steele off: playing with fire. Dumb luck alone had prevented it from blowing up in her face.

Tony's kiss in Dublin, along with his casual assumption that of course, she'd throw away her years with Steele for the sake of momentary physical "juice", had been the final straw. She'd meant it when she'd told him she couldn't pull back from Steele now. That Roselli hadn't believed her, or professed he didn't, was no big shock. If only he knew she'd scarcely spared a thought for him since the Glen Creagh police took him away. What a blow to his colossal ego _that_ would've been.

To her it was the final confirmation she needed of where her heart really lay--with Steele.

A Steele who'd been shaken to the core by a double-edged loss. A Steele who was already putting up walls and withdrawing behind them. A Steele who seemed bent on running away.

It was nothing new, she tried to tell herself. Part of getting close to Steele had been accepting that he was a man of moods, not all of them easy. When he retreated like this, the best course of action was give to him the latitude he needed to work out whatever was troubling him. She'd become very good at it. Much as she hated to admit it—much as she longed to give him more—maybe it was the only thing she could do in this situation. Give him room, and wait for him to come back to her.

And if he didn't come back? What then?

Her resolve to cross that bridge when—if—she came to it provided no comfort at all.

Eventually hunger drove her down to the kitchen, where Mildred was bustling between stove and steam table. Mildred's reaction to her appearance was ill-disguised surprise. "Mrs. Steele! I thought you were in Dublin with Mr. Steele!"

"Slight change of plan." In an effort to head off further questions, Laura gestured towards a pan simmering on the stove. "That wouldn't be dinner, would it?"

"Tomato soup. There's grilled cheese sandwiches to go with it. Want some?"

"I'd love some. Where on earth did you find the food? I thought the cupboard was completely bare."

"It wasn't me. The Chief made a down payment on the chef's bill this morning. Said to tell you he'll pay back the agency from his personal account when we get home. Gave me money for groceries, too. Mikeline took me shopping in Glen Creagh this morning." Laura noted the flush that reddened Mildred's cheeks with the final sentence, but refrained from mentioning it.

Since there didn't seem to be any servants around, she rummaged in the butler's pantry for cutlery, plates and glasses while Mildred finished the cooking. It was just as much an excuse to stay of Mildred's range as it was an effort to be helpful. Her assistant would be bubbling with curiosity over the fact she hadn't accompanied Steele to Dublin. Right now Laura wasn't in the mood to satisfy her, not while the incident with him was still smarting. Maybe if she kept silence on the subject long enough, Mildred would forget about it.

But it wasn't for nothing that Mildred had won commendations for her persistence from the IRS fraud squad. "So you two had some time to talk before he left for Dublin?" she said as soon as they were seated at the dining room table.

"Not long. A few minutes."

"How's he holding up?"

Laura sighed. Unless she responded with the polite equivalent of 'none of your business', she was in for it. Still, keeping her reply brief might serve as a hint to Mildred to back off. "He's a little…angry."

Mildred nodded sagely. "At himself, mostly. And feeling guilty on top of it."

"What makes you say that?"

"He didn't tell you? He didn't take it too well when Chalmers broke the news he was his son. Yelled at him and stormed off and wouldn't go back until I talked him into it. I think that was maybe a few minutes before Chalmers died. He's kicking himself for it now."

It explained a lot. Laura felt the hard knot in her mid-section begin to ease a little. The obvious sympathy in Mildred's eyes was doing its part, too.

"He took it out on you, I bet," Mildred continued. "Pushed you away. Am I right?"

"Something like that."

"Doesn't surprise me. That's usually the way it goes, especially when it's a sudden death."

She was speaking with the authority of a woman who knew what she was talking about, and it sparked a new attentiveness in Laura. Hadn't she been deploring her own ineptitude in dealing with Steele's grief? Here, maybe, was an insight she could use. "Why a sudden death especially?"

"Because of not being able to say good-bye. It's hard when everything's left unfinished. And him, with all those he questions he has? He's realizing he wasted the last chance he had to get the answers. He's just lashing out, honey. I wouldn't take it personally."

"I don't know, Mildred. He's pretty mad at me. He has to be, to say what he did."

They were silent for a bit, concentrating on their food. "Might help if you got it off your chest," Mildred commented at length.

Laura laid down her sandwich, remembering. "He said…with Daniel dead, I got what I've always wanted. And now I'll never have to worry that he'll lure him away from being Remington Steele again."

"Ouch."

"Yeah."

"Would if help if I said he didn't mean it?" Mildred asked. "It'll be the first thing _he_ says when he gets back, I guarantee it."

"Not really. But thanks."

"Aw, honey." Mildred patted her hand. "Try not to hold it against him, huh? You've put up with a lot worse from him without batting an eye, you know you have. And you know he needs you, and you know _he_ knows he needs you, even if he can't tell you himself right now. Stick it out. It'll be worth it, you'll see."

The conversation had done her a surprising lot of good. Laura had no problem admitting it. It had put some things in perspective, at least. What it couldn't do was fill the solitary hours that stretched ahead of her in this place that offered few to no distractions. Television was out, not for lack of a set, but because Irish programming was more difficult to follow than she would've expected. It wasn't a language problem so much as the cultural context. Without Steele to translate it for her, the way she had for him when he first arrived in the U.S., watching was kind of pointless. And the American re-runs one channel offered were old cop shows that had failed to interest her even when they were brand new.

With the library she fared better. One of the more recent lords of the manor had consolidated popular fiction into the huge collection; in its midst she spotted an old favorite by one of the authors who'd fed her adolescent dreams of becoming a detective. A good fire to banish the chill, a cup of tea, and she'd have everything she needed for a cozy evening in the master bedroom.

Once an obliging young footman had taken care of the former—without submitting a bill for his services—she settled down to the latter. Of course she couldn't fool herself about her real purpose. She didn't try. Of course she was waiting for Steele.

It was almost eight o'clock when a sweep of light across the windows overlooking the castle's forecourt signaled that a car was coming up the drive. _Madam, Will You Talk_? tumbled to the floor, forgotten; hastily she pulled on a robe and skimmed from the room.

But in the entrance hall there was only Marissa Peters shedding hat and coat and Mikeline discreetly hovering. "Where's Mr. Steele?" she asked them.

"Still in Dublin, I imagine." Marissa handed her outerwear to Mikeline. "The last I saw, he was off to hire a car."

Steele needed a rental car? Since when? And what for? A dark imp of suspicion stirred in Laura, ready with a full-blown scenario: Steele as Richard Blaine, boarding a plane to God knows where, fleeing a situation that was too big for him to handle emotionally. Leaving on her hands, in the process, a castle they couldn't afford to own, a nasty, suspicious Immigration case worker, and a phony marriage whose disintegration would probably land her in jail.

And who would await him at his destination? Shannon? Felicia, who, according to Steele's euphemistic construction, had 'run into a spot of trouble' in Westminster, and was off for an 'extended vacation' in Sint Maarten? Or maybe it was the rent-a-bride, Clarissa—a much nicer girl than the other two, but for all that not above putting herself in contention for Steele's affections.

Get a grip, Laura ordered herself. The Blaine passport, along with the other four, had been in Scotland Yard's possession for the past six months. And his Remington Steele passport was safely tucked into one of the bureau drawers he'd staked out for himself upstairs. She'd seen it for herself when she'd put the rest of his clothes away.

Anyway, wasn't her more immediate concern whether or not he'd pulled off the caper? "Did it go all right at the funeral home?" she asked Marissa.

"Exactly the way he planned. Even Kemodov rose to the occasion. He's a brilliant man, that husband of yours. And an interesting one." Head on one side, Marissa contemplated her. "I'd like to ask you a question."

"Go ahead."

"I get the feeling there's been more going on here than meets the eye, especially when it comes to you and your Mr. Steele and Daniel."

It was hard to guess from Marissa's knowing gaze what she was after. No big worry; Laura had the utmost confidence in the inscrutability of her own poker face. "How well did you know Daniel?"

"We worked together a couple times. Had a few drinks, a few laughs. You know the sort of thing I mean."

"Has he ever talked to you about Mr. Steele?"

"Never. Which makes it all the more curious, what you said earlier, while we were trying to figure out what Daniel intended to do with the coffins. 'Like father, like son'."

More trouble from that innocent, off-the-cuff remark. Laura was beginning to regret she'd ever made it, though she was careful not to let it show. "Did you ask my husband to explain?"

"He wasn't exactly in the mood for personal conversation."

"There you have it, then."

The parry had the desired effect. Instead of taking it with resentment, as she might have, Marissa only looked amused. "Yes, I suppose I do. So that's that. I'm leaving for London in the morning." She held out her hand. "It's been interesting, meeting you both. Perhaps our paths will cross again."

Even before Marissa passed on her way upstairs, Laura had forgotten her. "Mikeline?" she called. She wasn't sure where in the bowels of the castle he might've gotten to, and took a few steps towards the dining room. "Mikeline?"

As usual, he was flushed and panting when he finally turned up. "Looking for me, were you, your ladyship?"

"It might be late before Mr. Steele gets back tonight. Will he be able to get inside? Or do you lock up at a certain hour?"

"Sure and we do lock up every night, routine-like, your ladyship, else the castle treasures wouldn't be safe, the times being what they are. But no need to fret about your lordship. I'll see he gets in, meself, you have my word on it, ma'am."

"Thank you. I appreciate it." She was turning to go when a sudden thought arrested her. "Mikeline?"

"Your ladyship?"

"Would you give his lordship a message from me when he comes? Tell him I'm waiting up for him. No matter how late it gets, I'm waiting for him."

"That I will do, ma'am."

Up in the master bedroom again, Laura moved quickly to one of the casements opposite the door. That it was the same one through which she'd helped Tony evade Steele yesterday never crossed her mind. But just as she had then, she unhooked the catch, opened the window and leaned out.

Darkness was thick here, not like California, swallowing all but the castle's immediate perimeter. She peered into it anyway, as if by concentrating hard enough she could penetrate not only atmosphere but distance, and see all the way to Dublin. And snatch a glimpse, if she could, of a tall, dark-haired man, hands in pockets, slouching elegantly through its streets.

Part partner. Part cherished friend. Part longed-for, would-be lover. Daniel Chalmer's bereaved son. The man she called Remington Steele.

"Where are you?" she whispered into the night. Then she said it again: "Where _are_ you?"

No one answered. Nothing happened. But she stayed there for a long time, heedless of the cold, watching for headlights on the dark road from Glen Creagh.

TO BE CONTINUED


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2

It had gone as well as he could've reasonably expected, Steele thought to himself.

A deliberate understatement. Actually it had gone damn well. Under ordinary circumstances, he'd have given himself a well-deserved tip of the hat and gone off to celebrate.

Ah, but these weren't ordinary circumstances, were they.

One official each from the American and British embassies had been waiting for him and Marissa in Niall Donegal's cramped office upon their arrival in Dublin. The men weren't the ambassadors themselves—Marissa's powers of persuasion, though good, were not, apparently, _that_ good—but subordinates high enough in the hierarchy to have genuine power.

Power they hadn't hesitated to wield. Steele's private stereotype of diplomats as indecisive, conciliatory types had shattered into smithereens as Secretaries Spaulding and Peterborough took events into their own hands. Within an hour Kemodov, who'd been held with Fitch in another office during the meeting, had been accepted as a defector to the United States; arrangements finalized for his departure that evening for Maryland, courtesy of the U.S. Air Force; his death reported to the Soviets. Fitch, meanwhile, would travel under military escort to London in the guise of Britain's newest civilian hero, Daniel Chalmers.

This last had been Peterborough's idea. As Steele's recitation of the events surrounding Fitch's capture drew to a close, Peterborough had looked thoughtful. "It seems to me this man, Chalmers, was most instrumental in unmasking our mole, even more so than the American agent—what was his name?"

"Antony Roselli," replied Steele.

"Roselli, yes. One might go so far as to conclude that Sterling Fitch would still be at large were it not for Chalmers."

Caution signals were flashing in Steele's head. Unsure where Peterborough was headed with this, he said slowly, "I think it's fair to say that if Daniel hadn't persevered in his pursuit of Comrade Kemodov, Fitch would never have been lured from the safety of London."

"Agreed," said Peterborough. "And such perseverance ought to be rewarded. A public funeral. Full military honors."

Surprise as potent as a punch in the gut had robbed Steele of breath. Then he'd drawn a deep one and asked, "But…you'll have sent him to Moscow, won't you? In Kemodov's place?"

"I'm afraid that can't be helped. But there's no reason why we shouldn't honor him posthumously for his service, never mind that he's not actually present. And I think it fitting that Fitch should take the place, so to speak, of the man who caught him, at least while en route to London."

A major facet of Steele's plan had changed without his input. He hardly noticed. Peterborough's words were hammering home a truth that hadn't occurred to him until now.

'Actually present'. Daniel wouldn't actually be present, should Peterborough's superiors agree that a military funeral would, indeed, be a proper show of gratitude for the neutralization of Fitch.

Of course he wouldn't. His body was to be the decoy that would allow Kemodov to slip off to the United States.

But once his body had arrived in Moscow…what would happen then?

One thing was certain. The Soviets weren't sending him back.

_He would never know where Daniel's body was laid to rest._

The realization had transfixed him so thoroughly that he lost his place in the conversation. He had to force himself to concentrate on Secretary Spaulding, who was explaining how Kemodov's transfer to Andrews Air Force Base would play out. The entrance of a uniformed aide interrupted them. "Sir? Checkpoint A reports that the Soviets are on the move. Dmytrk and Leschova."

Spaulding checked his watch. "E.T.A.?"

"They've just left the embassy, sir."

"Thanks, Lieutenant Dwyer." Spaulding had turned to Steele and Marissa. "It's better if you aren't here when Kemodov's colleagues arrive, so we'll have to cut the meeting short. No reason to tempt them to put you under surveillance again."

Rising with Spaulding and Peterborough, Steele and Marissa had exchanged a startled glance. "Excuse me, but did you just say the Soviets have been watching us?" asked Marissa.

"The castle, yes," Spaulding replied. "Ever since Kemodov turned up missing. In fact, we can't be sure they haven't tapped your phone lines. It might be good to give us an alternate means for getting in touch with you. Don't you think so, Peterborough?"

"Quite right."

"I'm flying to London tomorrow. I'd be happy relay a message to Mr. Steele if you contact me there," volunteered Marissa.

Once phone numbers were exchanged, Spaulding had moved to usher them out. But Steele had hesitated. "Perhaps we ought to wait here, since we're being watched."

Spaulding laughed. "You'll be fine, trust me. My men have the whole street covered."

"Your men?" Steele's brow quirked into a frown. "But I didn't see any-"

"You wouldn't have. U.S. Army Intelligence, Mr. Steele, the best damn men in the world for covert work. Switch identities and blend in right under your nose, and you'll never see them. But I assure you, they'll see you. You're perfectly safe."

Spaulding had told the truth; Steele and Marissa returned to the waiting Rolls without incident. As Terence sprang out to open the rear door for Marissa, Steele had said to her, "There's really no need for you to hurry back to London. You're welcome to stay at the castle a bit longer, if you'd like."

"Isn't that a rash invitation from a man on his honeymoon? Sweet of you to offer, but I couldn't possibly."

"It's good-bye, then. Thanks for everything you've done." And he'd taken her hand and shaken it.

"You're not coming back to the castle?"

"I've some things to take care of. I'll hire a car for the drive home. Terence, you'll be taking Miss Peters back alone, okay?"

But Marissa wasn't quite ready to be dismissed. "Since it i_s_ good-bye, Mr. Steele, let me ask you a question." At his silent assent, she went on, " 'Like father, like son'. Did I really hear your wife say that today? And does it mean what I think it does?"

Long practice had taught Steele not to betray information even by the flicker of an eyelash when he didn't want to. What did they know about Marissa Peters, anyway? Beyond the fact that she'd proven an enormous help this afternoon, nothing. She was an enigma, and probably an untrustworthy one, if the kind of feminine company Daniel had always kept was a yardstick to go by. Safer to pretend ignorance.

"Ah, I expect you misunderstood Mrs. Steele. Daniel and I are—were—like father and son to one another. That's probably what she intended to say."

The glint in Marissa's eyes told him he hadn't fooled her for a second. "That must be it. Well, good-bye, Mr. Steele. It's been…interesting, to say the least."

Now, watching the limo glide off down the street, he thought again how well things had gone. Daniel would've been proud of him.

Though what the hell difference did that make, really? Daniel was dead.

Steele began to walk.

The first order of business was to try and hire a car, if he could find a garage open at this hour. He was aware that part of him was hoping he wouldn't. Then he'd have a legitimate excuse for booking a room and staying the night.

He had lied to Marissa, of course. There were no errands to do, nothing pressing that required his presence in Dublin.

Nowhere to go except back to the castle, with its painful echoes of the ugly words he'd hurled at his father. Nothing to do but apologize to Laura, whom he'd wounded just as flagrantly.

As it happened, he stumbled across an elderly Morris coupe for hire within a few blocks of where he'd parted from Marissa. But once in the driver's seat he wavered as to his destination. A pub, perhaps? Lights, a crowd, voices and laughter, clouds of tobacco smoke, music? Enough alcohol to anesthetize him, at least for tonight?

But he'd never been that sort. Memories of the sodden, violent men who'd populated his childhood had seen to it. Drink was reserved for celebration and romance. He'd have to seek forgetfulness elsewhere.

He ended up at the cinema.

_Top Gun_, _Crocodile Dundee_, _Ferris Bueller's Day Off_, American pictures that had been new four months ago. Those he avoided scrupulously. A sign advertising a John Ford revival was what drew him in. Ford and Wayne, son and great-grandson of Eire. It didn't matter that the theater was shabby and more than slightly grubby around the edges. He'd known its like before. Suddenly he was ten years old again, just as shabby and grubby, buying, with the shillings he managed to scavenge from Cousin Madge Gallagher's alms box, a few hours of blissful refuge from the back of Madge's red, work-roughened hand, from Padraig Gallagher's belt strap, the sole of Padraig's hobnailed boot.

And there was the respite he craved, at least for a while, in watching the story of the Ringo Kid unfold. The true hero of _Stagecoach_, to Steele's mind. The heart of gold beneath the lawless exterior; the renegade tamed by a woman's love. The underlying implication that everyone is redeemable, even a gunslinger with blood on his hands. Had he ever applied it in later years to himself and Daniel? He had to confess that he had.

But the first half hour of _The Searchers_ shattered the mood. The mature Wayne as Ethan Edwards, battered, solitary warrior, returning from America's Civil War to the embrace of his family, only to have them murdered by the Comanches. Steele knew what was coming, that it would end with lonely Ethan barred from domesticity again, the final frame capturing Wayne in the doorway, looking in at the happy reunion from outside, before the door shut on him with finality.

So abruptly did Steele rise that he upset his box of popcorn, kernels flying everywhere.

It didn't have to happen to him. He didn't have to be that man. Even with Daniel gone, he didn't have to be. Even though the circle of those he trusted was reduced irrevocably by one, the person who'd known the most about him, but loved him anyway…

Nothing but the need to prove it to himself could've sent him fleeing back to Glen Creagh as swiftly as he did.

The castle was mostly dark as he braked for the turn into its gates. But he saw dim light glowing through the windows of what he knew to be the master bedroom. And Mikeline was there at the door to welcome him in, unburden him of his trench coat and direct him upstairs. "Your ladyship's waiting up for you, your lordship."

It had to be well past midnight. "She is?" Steele said.

"She is, indeed, no matter how late you came in. Her very words, sir."

"Thank you. You're turning in for the night yourself?"

"That I am, your lordship."

"Good night to you, then. And thank you."

The source of the glow he'd spied from outside turned out to be a fire in the master bedroom's fireplace, the one that dominated the sitting area to the right of the door. It still burnt brightly enough to show him that Laura hadn't quite attained her goal of waiting up for him. But she'd made a credible attempt. For she was asleep in her pajamas on the chaise in front of the fire, blanket over her, book in hand. She'd probably been there for hours. The tightness in his chest seemed to ease a little as he recognized the fact.

Her dressing gown was puddled on the floor near the chaise. He thought he was perfectly noiseless in bending to retrieve it, but Laura stirred and sat up. "Mr. Steele?"

He turned to see her brushing her hair out of her eyes. "Hi," he said softly. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's okay. I was waiting for you, anyway."

"So Mikeline told me."

He'd have taken a chair across from her except that she drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. It was a tacit invitation to join her on the chaise, one he couldn't refuse.

"How'd it go this afternoon?" she asked.

"Like the proverbial clockwork." He proceeded to relate all that had transpired in Donegal's office. "One unforeseen development, though. In their estimation Daniel was the one most responsible for nabbing Fitch. They're thinking about citing him for heroism."

He expected her to launch a heated defense of Roselli, who had, after all, played the more vital role, but she all she said was, "Oh, my. And that means-?"

"A military funeral in London. Burial with full honors. Peterborough—the English secretary—wasn't entirely certain. But he thought it likely."

"How do you feel about that?"

"It's more than I'll be able to give him, isn't it?"

"I know." She gazed at him somberly. "I was thinking that when Donegal's took him away, how it was almost like the funeral procession he was never going to have."

"I wasn't. Never even crossed my mind. Bloody idiot that I am." He was silent for a moment, a question he hadn't dared to pose to anyone else trembling now at the tip of his tongue. "What do you suppose they'll do with him when they find he's not Kemodov?"

"The Soviets?"

He nodded.

Her voice was very gentle as she replied. "They're not all monsters, Mr. Steele. Remember Ivan Strelnikov? They'll treat Daniel with respect."

"And bury him somewhere in Russia."

This time it was her turn to nod.

"But I'll never know exactly where," he said.

"No."

"I can't do a blasted thing to mark his grave. And I'll never be able to visit him." His throat was beginning to close up; his next words came out in a whisper. "Ah, damn." And he dropped his lashes quickly, before Laura could see the tears that were stinging beneath his eyelids.

It was then that she did something unprecedented in all their years together. Rising to her knees beside him, she took her head in her hands, drew it down to her breast, and cradled him.

Stunned, he rested motionless against her, arms hanging at his sides. Then they went around her, hard. His breath shuddered in and out. He didn't speak. Neither did Laura. But he felt her kiss the top of his head and her hand come up to stroke his hair.

It took some time to stop his eyes from burning, but at last he straightened and put her away from him a little. There had been a shift in the emotional landscape during those moments in her embrace. A breach repaired? A bridge rebuilt? He searched for a description for it and came up empty.

It prompted him to try and make amends to her for his earlier harshness. "Laura…what I said before, about you and Daniel. I'm sorry. I know you never wished him dead."

"It's okay. I knew you didn't mean it."

He didn't want to move any farther from her, resisted the idea of letting her go. She'd picked up his mood in that respect, it seemed, for she said, "Do you want us to be together tonight?"

"Do you?"

"I'm asking you."

He hesitated. These were deep waters they were approaching, and he felt himself seizing up, like a diver afraid to plunge from the diving board. Not for the first time, he cursed the inability to express himself that always dogged him when he most wanted to be honest with her. Even now he was grappling with the urge to give his glibness free rein and deflect her with a light-hearted quip. Spin it all into some kind of 1930's screwball comedy. Degrade it to a bedroom farce.

To run away, in a word.

What stopped him was the recollection of why he'd sped back to the castle in the first place—that, and the way she had reached for him just now. Spontaneous, generous, she'd made the first move, when she might very well have spurned him, or even escalated the hostilities.

Didn't he owe it to her at least to try and meet her halfway?

So he took a deep breath, and with it a stab at overcoming that cursed constriction of his tongue.

"I-don't know. I want you, Laura. My God, I do. But it doesn't feel right somehow." Another pause. "I can't believe I said that."

"Is it because of Daniel?"

"In part. Not the way you might think."

"I was thinking it might help you forget everything, at least for a while."

"It would. And that's exactly why it doesn't feel right. If only we hadn't been interrupted yesterday…or if we'd managed it in London, or Los Angeles, the way we planned…"

Her head was tilted at the angle that meant she was listening intently. "It would've been all right to make love now?"

"I think so. Yes."

"Why?"

"Because it wouldn't be our first time together. We'd have had it already. And it would've been about us—_you_—the way it ought to be. And I'd have proved to you how much I-"

It was then he realized what he was on the verge of blurting out. He stammered to a halt.

Here it was. His opportunity to take the plunge, to dive.

Could he profess his love to her at last? Could he make the admission to Laura that he never had to Daniel, the one his father had died without hearing?

Say it, damn you, he admonished himself. _Say it_.

"-how very much you mean to me," he finished.

His voice fell away into silence. Chastened by his want of courage, he gazed at her. He'd failed. Again. He knew what he deserved for it: Laura dressing him down in the most blistering language she had at her disposal before storming off to bed.

But she made no move to leave him. "I think I understand," she said. "It's like the night after the Enterprow Foundation blew up my house. Only in reverse."

"Exactly. I don't want it to be merely for comfort, our first time, you giving, me taking. That's what it would be tonight."

"Then you're right. We should wait."

His shoulders slumped. Whether it was from relief that she wasn't angry or disappointment at the idea of another night wasted, he couldn't tell. Possibly it was a little of both.

She must've noticed, because she took one of his hands in both of hers and stroked it. "Don't worry, Mr. Steele. We'll get there eventually."

"Will we?"

"We will." Leaning forward, she kissed him. "As long as you promise to let me know when you're ready."

"You'll be the first, I assure you." There was the slightest hint of dry humor in his reply.

They got to their feet. "I'll take the couch tonight," he said.

"Kind of a tight fit for you, wouldn't you say? Take the bed. I'll be fine."

"Don't be ridiculous, Laura. You're forgetting I can drop off anywhere. You, on the other hand, would be frozen stiff by morning if you slept here. Go on."

By the time he'd washed and changed into his pajamas, she'd prepared a nest for him on the chaise and tucked herself into the graceful old four-poster. The dying embers shed enough light so that he could see her gaze on him as he exited the bathroom.

He stopped and turned to her. "Good night."

A rustle of the bedclothes, her near-silent, unhurried footfalls across the stone floor, and then she had her arms around him. On tiptoe she softly kissed his mouth. "Sleep well, Mr. Steele."

He'd more or less resigned himself to the ordeal of a wakeful night in which the events of the past twenty-four hours played endlessly in his head. There he was pleasantly surprised. Minutes after had he punched down the fresh pillows Laura had collected for him and folded his body under the blankets, he was fast asleep.

* * *

Grief, Steele was beginning to discover, didn't always seethe at a high emotional pitch, but came in waves that waxed and waned in intensity.

Take the next morning, for example. Thoughts of Daniel were still weighing heavily on him when he awakened, but he felt considerably better equipped to cope with them. He hadn't realized how much the manic tempo of the past week had exhausted him. Forty-eight hours with no sleep except the kip he'd had on the plane from Los Angeles to London and again on the ferry from Liverpool to Dublin hadn't helped matters, either.

The Dublin paper was full of the news of Roselli's capture by the Glen Creagh police. Sipping a cup of tea in the dining room, Steele read the account. Apparently the real story hadn't yet been released to the press; it could be that Secretary Peterborough or Secretary Spaulding was trying to keep it under wraps. In the meantime, the hero of the hour was undoubtedly Glen Creagh's Captain Rourke. The reporter had also allotted a line or two of praise for the current lord of Ashford Castle and the assistance he'd provided to the local constabulary. All highly flattering, really. Steele wondered what Laura thought of it.

He would've asked, but no one seemed to know where she was. She'd preceded him downstairs by a couple of hours and had long since breakfasted. He checked the obvious places—the library, the downstairs sitting room with the television, their bedroom—but had no luck. It looked as if a more thorough search of the castle was in order. Unless—

It was hard to suppress them, the suspicions that oozed to the surface. Perhaps she'd seen the paper, after all, and it had brought Roselli's plight home to her. Perhaps she'd prevailed on Terence to drive her into Glen Creagh. Perhaps at this very moment she was at the jail, commiserating with Antony, comforting him with that captivating softness she could summon up when it suited her, assuring him his vindication was coming soon.

He was halfway out the door to the garage to interrogate the chauffeur when he bumped into his missing wife. Pink cheeks and ruffled hair were clues that she'd spent some time outdoors. So were her clothes: casual shoes and pants, the heaviest sweater she'd packed, and a tweed sport coat much too large for her. His, actually.

It was so different from the picture he'd painted in his imagination that he was rocked momentarily off balance. "Ah, Mrs. Steele. Touring our holdings?"

"I thought it was about time. It's a little nippy this morning, or else I would've stayed out longer."

"Life in a cold climate. I approve your choice of tailor."

"I didn't think you'd mind. Do you?"

"Of course not. I've told you before, you do my wardrobe more than proud." He opened the newspaper. "Seen this, have you?"

"No, what is it?"

He handed it over and watched her narrowly for any hint of sympathy for Roselli while she scanned the article. Not only did her expression not alter by a hair, all she said was, "It'll be interesting to watch this reporter eat humble pie when word gets out who the real traitor is."

"All in a day's work for him, I'd imagine. Did you notice the mention of Ashford Castle? Big of Captain Rourke to include us."

"Credit where credit is due, Mr. Steele." Now her face did change, softening perceptibly as she looked up at him. "How'd you sleep?"

"Well enough. You?"

"Fine." She touched his hand. "Come upstairs with me while I change. There's some things we need to talk about."

It turned out that the subject on her mind was Daniel. "Is there anyone you should call? His friends? Did he have any other family?"

Unable to sit still, he'd been pacing up and down their bedroom, but her question froze him in place. "Other family?"

"Besides you," she said gently.

He stared back at her, eyes wide. It was the first time he'd thought of his relationship to Daniel in those terms, as a single link in a larger connection. But of course that's what it was. Grandparents he most certainly had; perhaps there were aunts or uncles or cousins, as well. As much a part of him-and he of them-as his Irish connection, those unknown Chalmers relations.

If they existed at all. Try as he might, he couldn't recall Daniel ever speaking of his family. Nor had he, Steele, ever stumbled across any evidence in the form of photographs or personal mementos. The flats they'd shared during his last years of boyhood had been remarkably barren in that respect. Daniel, the consummate professional, had adhered faithfully to the dictum that a conman never leaves behind a signpost pointing to his past.

He told Laura so.

"His friends, then. And his lawyer will need to know."

If Daniel had a solicitor, he'd never mentioned his name. Steele nodded anyway. "All right."

"And Mikeline was asking about his things."

"What about them?"

"His room's just the way he left it. Mikeline won't let the maids touch it until you say so. But he thought it might be easier if one of them packed up his clothes for you."

"Pack? What for?"

"That's up to you. Give them away, take them with us when we go home, whatever you decide. I guess I'm assuming you want to stay a little longer?"

"Absolutely I do. We're still on honeymoon, if we can call it that."

"The honeymoon's just beginning, remember?" she said, with a flash of her dimple. "Then there's his apartment. I'm not sure what the laws are in England, if you're allowed access or not before his will is read. If he's named you his next of kin, it might not matter anyway. But you should probably go over and close it up as soon as you can."

"All right." Where _had _Daniel been living since Steele's last visit to him four years ago? Steele realized for the first time that he hadn't the faintest idea.

"You'll probably want to have the utilities shut off right away, get his mail re-routed, that kind of thing. You can do that from here. Or, better yet, ask Mildred. She's dying of boredom, and it would give her something to do."

She went on suggesting and recommending, but he had stopped listening. It wasn't by choice, however. The turmoil of his thoughts was manifesting itself physically as a buzzing in his ears, drowning out her voice.

Daniel had been his best friend. His best friend in the world, he'd have called Daniel, apart from Laura. Yet he was clueless about the basic facts of Daniel's past, his current living arrangements, or what his last wishes might have been.

Had the wall of secrecy between them been that high? Or the trust between them so lacking? As recently as two days ago, Steele would've said no. They'd shared so much over the years, he'd have said: a home, their work, a history of exploits so highly colored and full of derring-do that he'd have scoffed at them as exaggeration if related to him by someone else.

It hit him like a blast of icy air. Had he ever known Daniel at all? It seemed not. The man who had hidden successfully behind aliases for at least twenty years of his life had hidden with equal success from his son.

Hands clenched into fists, Steele swung towards the window and stared out.

"…put up some kind of memorial for him," Laura was saying. "In a cemetery in London, if we can pull it off. We'll have to find a way to get permission from the authorities. You know England best of all of us, Mr. Steele. What would you suggest?"

She wasn't being insensitive on purpose, he told himself. She was only trying to help. She was doing what she would've done, were she in his shoes. He recognized it because he'd seen the way she handled grief, throwing herself into her work with a kind of barely contained fury, refusing to allow herself a moment to think. He could hardly blame her for forgetting that he reacted to pain differently than she.

"Mr. Steele?" she said.

He sucked in a ragged gulp of air. "Laura, no more. Please. Just…no more."

There was a silence during which he felt rather than saw her eyes upon him. "Are you okay?" she said.

When he didn't reply, she approached him at the window. "Mr. Steele?"

"I can't," he said. "It's too much right now. Don't ask me to make decisions about a monument, or his flat, or—or anything. Let me get used to his being gone."

"Okay."

A few minutes went by. She tucked a hand through the crook of his elbow, a gesture he recalled from the day before. Only this time he laid his other hand over hers and kept it there.

It was with Laura's hand in his that they entered the room that had been Daniel's a few hours later.

He couldn't have explained what had changed his mind about sorting out Daniel's things. Laura didn't ask him to. She hadn't made a big deal about it when he asked her to help, either, so it surprised him when she hung back a little on the threshold. In her eyes he read a diffidence that was wholly out of character for her. "Sure you want me here?" she said.

"I'm sure." And he squeezed her hand as he had earlier, partly to reassure her, partly to fortify himself for the task ahead of him.

Mikeline was as good as his word; nothing had been touched as far as Steele could tell. Daniel's partially packed suitcase sat on the trunk at the foot of the bed. There were his toiletries on top of the bureau on the right and the decanter of port wine on a tray beside them.

Then Steele saw his mistake. One detail had changed. The crystal goblets he'd filled with port—a draught for him, a draught for Daniel-had been removed.

The memory of the toast that hadn't been drunk and the question that hadn't been answered was so powerful it made him stagger.

In an unconscious imitation of their system for dividing leg work, she staked out one half of the room, he the other. For a while they worked without speaking. It was just as well, for he couldn't have trusted his voice. Emptying the bureau drawers of Daniel's shirts, sweaters and socks, he was shaken by images so vivid that he had to steel himself against them. Every piece of clothing, even the simplest, seemed to call up a glimpse into his and Daniel's common past. So this was what it was like, tidying up the loose ends after a death, he thought. He felt his chest start to tighten again.

At one point he looked over to see Laura quietly filling a paper sack with various plastic containers. He stared. Pill bottles? Yes, that's what they were. As many as ten of them, by his count.

Before he was fully aware of what he was doing, he was across the room and snatching them up. "Captotril," he read aloud from the labels. "Lanoxin. Hydrodiuril." He met Laura's eyes. "He was taking all these?"

"The two of you didn't talk about it? He'd been sick for a while. That's why he came here. That chief of security business was just a cover. He knew he didn't have much time left, and he wanted to see you again."

"What was it he had?"

"Heart disease…congestive heart failure. They wanted to do a transplant, a valve, but he refused. He didn't like the odds they were giving. It wasn't a good bet, he said."

The tone of disapproval with which she usually talked about his father was missing, probably because she was trying to spare his feelings as much as she could. Too late, and not her fault; the knowledge that here was one more secret Daniel had kept from him was already rankling. But it wasn't quite as painful a blow as the others had been. He was getting used to them. No doubt in another day or so he'd be completely oblivious.

Before long he'd cleared out the rest of the clothing and was closing and locking the suitcases. Laura had already finished, and handed him a box she was holding on her lap. "I thought you might want to go through this yourself."

It was a handsome leather case that Steele recognized as Daniel's travel valet. He sat down next to her on the bed and opened it. Its contents, the dress watch, the studs, the tie bars, were as familiar to him as if they were his own.

There was something else that made him draw his breath in sharply. "I didn't realize he still had these."

"What are they?"

"The first gift I ever gave him." And he picked up the pair of plain gold cuff links and placed them on her palm.

"I have a feeling there's a story behind them. Care to share?"

"Not much to tell. Bought them with the first money I earned. I must've been about fifteen."

She raised a faintly skeptical eyebrow. " 'Earned'?"

"In a manner of speaking. I definitely didn't steal it. He used to wear them all the time, but I haven't seen them in years." Gently he ran the ball of his thumb over the cuff links as he returned them to their tray. "Ah, Laura. You should've seen him back then. There he'd be, ready for an evening out, dinner jacket perfectly pressed, flower in his buttonhole, silk scarf draped at just the right angle…He might've been Errol Flynn or Robert Taylor stepped down from the movie screen. You'd have been impressed."

"Like father, like son?" she suggested.

"Only after he'd drilled it into me. But him? He came by it naturally."

Laying the box aside, he stared absently at the wall opposite him, engulfed again in a vision of his past. "I don't know where I'd be if it weren't for him, Laura. Dead in the gutter years ago, or locked up for life. He was more than Henry Gondorf to my Johnny Hooker. He saved me from the streets."

"I know. He told me the story when he was here that time—a little of it, anyway."

"He did?"

"He said he'd found you picking pockets in London. 'Hustling for a quid', is how he put it. And he decided to take you under his wing and teach you his trade." The wry note was back in her voice.

"A bit of an understatement. Then again, he never did like to have it pointed out to him, the good he'd done me."

"The good he'd done-?" she echoed. She threw him a skeptical look. "We _are_ talking about Daniel, aren't we?"

Steele sat very still. Filling him was an urgent need to do what he hadn't before, to lay the whole story before her, unembellished, even the areas in which the truth was painful to him, or, worse, might lower her estimation of him. Would she push him away if he were honest with her about the past? He'd always feared the answer was yes. But he was discovering a greater fear: that of concealment, of mutual misperception, of allowing opportunities to talk slip through his fingers until it was too late.

So he turned his head and met her gaze straight on. "Yes, Daniel. I want to tell you about him…I want you to—know who he was. If you could listen for a while…"

And he began to talk.

They all poured out, the things he'd never told anyone else. The misery of his childhood in Ireland. The beatings, the verbal cruelty. The unremitting scorn of neighbors and school mates because he was a bastard child. The way he'd been passed between aunts and cousins, the Shaws and the Doyles, the Gallaghers and O'Biernes, and back again, carelessly, capriciously, as if he were a not-too-favorite mongrel puppy. His trip on the ferry to Liverpool with Bob O'Bierne, bolting in desperation from the man's heavy fist into the anonymity of the largest city he'd ever seen. Making his solitary way to London. Scrounging for scraps from rubbish bins, sometimes doing without food altogether for a day or two at a time. Sleeping in doorways and abandoned buildings. The hunger, the cold, the loneliness, the fear of being caught or killed that had constantly gnawed him.

And the good years, the ones with Daniel. Their first coincidental meeting, the interest Daniel had evinced in him from the start. His transition from the street to Daniel's flat, which to his mind had been as luxurious as a palace, with its central heat and running water and a bed of his very own in which to sleep. The nourishing food and clean clothes. The good-humored lessons in grooming, manners and deportment, and, later, the initiation into Daniel's business, where the boy who called himself Harry had excelled and thrived. The bond that had formed between them as they negotiated the realities of the life they'd chosen-the uncertain income, the ever-present dangers of detection and capture which dictated frequent changes of domicile, sometimes with barely a day's notice.

And, always, Daniel himself, a gentleman through and through in his behavior and bearing, who nevertheless appeared more comfortable on the shady side of the street than in the prosperous, educated circles in which he by rights should have moved.

It was hard! Steele couldn't believe how hard it was to share the secrets he'd held so closely for so long. He, the quintessential silver-tongued Irishman, the spellbinding storyteller, heard himself speaking in fits and starts, groping for words, lapsing into hot-faced silences. Frequently he had to look away from Laura when excess emotion overwhelmed him. Once he came close to breaking down in tears. Thank the good Lord, he was able to check them at the very last minute, before they actually fell.

But his temporary inarticulateness appeared to make no difference to Laura. Her attention on him never faltered. Nor did she recoil—not once-at anything he said. Her voice in the few questions she posed was warm; in her eyes he saw only deep affection. And he drank it in like a thirsty man.

By the time he had done, they were stretched out on their sides facing each other, heads propped on their elbows. The angle of the sunlight slanting through the window betokened late afternoon, and Steele glanced up in disbelief. "I didn't realize it had gotten so late."

They rose to their feet. A sudden wave of embarrassment had overtaken Steele, the price to be paid, he suspected, for his uncharacteristic soul-baring. To hide it he picked up the suitcases in which they'd packed Daniel's clothing. "It'll be best to donate these, I think. I know just the man who can use them. In fact, I'll take them to him now."

It was an unspoken relief that she didn't ask where he was going or how long he'd be gone. Instead she gestured toward the travel valet. "What about this?"

"The jewelry I'll keep. Would you mind-?"

With the box in her arms she accompanied him down the hall. Her presence beside him was like a balm, soothing the sharpest edges of his grief.

"Laura," he said abruptly. "How long since we've been out to dinner, just the two of us?"

"Mm, good question. Before the Joan Grey case?"

More than two months ago. That sounded about right. "What would you say to a jaunt to Dublin when I get back? Eh? Dinner for two? Somewhere quiet?"

"Sounds wonderful. Sure you're up for it?"

"I wouldn't have suggested it if I wasn't. We'll leave around half past six, okay?"

Just before they went their separate ways, she halted him with a hand on his arm. "What I said the other night."

"About?"

"Daniel. I was right. I _have _misjudged him all these years. He is—was—a very fine man."

Dropping the bags freed his hands so that he could take her face between them and stroke her cheek. "Thank you."

She responded with a wordless smile that lingered in his mind's eye all the way to Glen Creagh.

At Saints Timothy and Titus Church he asked what he presumed to be a parishioner to point the way to Father Armagh's office. The priest, a burly man with a head of rough mahogany curls, would've looked much more at home on a construction crew than he did in his clericals. But his smile of greeting was warm, and he came around his desk with hand outstretched, ready to grasp Steele's in welcome.

Steele never gave him the chance. "For your next jumble sale, Father," he said, thrusting Daniel's suitcases towards him. And before Armagh could open his mouth to thank him, he had slipped away towards the sanctuary.

Once inside, he spent a few minutes exploring. It was as bare of expensive ornaments as one might expect, this little church that served the impoverished villages of Glen Creagh, Glen Kerry and Glen Caron. But what it lacked in decoration, it made up for in piety; there was no shortage of shrines, replete with candles, set into niches along the wall. At the largest of them all, he found what he what he was looking for.

He crossed himself and awkwardly went down on his knees before the statue of the Blessed Virgin. The words of the Our Father, though seldom used these days, came readily to his remembrance. With bowed head he prayed them under his breath, and added a Hail Mary for good measure. Then he rose, slid a fiver into the donations box, and approached the little altar.

And there, for the first time in his life, lit a candle for his father.

TO BE CONTINUED


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

As she waited at the castle for Steele to return from his mysterious errand, Laura had to admit it to herself. She was a little nervous about the evening ahead of them.

Maybe a lot nervous.

It was a perfectly reasonable reaction, under the circumstances. In the course of a single afternoon, the Steele she thought she knew had vanished, probably for good. And she wasn't sure yet about the man who had taken his place.

She wouldn't have traded what had transpired between them that afternoon for anything, of course. Those confidences of his were what she'd been hoping for since they'd met, though she'd never suspected how heartbreaking they would be when they finally came. The little glimpses that had slipped from him over the years hadn't prepared her for the truth. Now she understood why he'd resisted her harangues, her periodic campaigns to force him to talk, with such unyielding determination. She of all people, who dreaded questions about her abandonment by her father, should've gotten the reason for his reserve long before this, and sympathized with it.

How her insensitivity must've hurt him over the years! The thought sent a pang through her. Rarely did she second guess her behavior towards Steele; his cockiness made him fair game for whatever she chose to dish out, was the way she viewed it. But in this situation, she was truly ashamed of herself.

It wasn't an easy feeling to live with.

Neither was the realization that she'd been hugely unfair to Daniel. They'd never framed it exactly in those terms, they'd always made a joke of it, but underneath the surface their rivalry for Steele's affections had been intensely real. And she'd resented the hell out of the old man for making Steele into what he was. Apparently Daniel had been the first person to recognize his protégé's extraordinary talents, Steele's keen, flexible intelligence, his gift for languages and story-telling, his prodigious memory. Who knew what Steele might have been, if Daniel had influenced those qualities for good?

But what had he done instead? Shaped Steele into the kind of shady operator he was himself. Exploited his son's youth and dependency to manipulate him into the confidence business. Continued to exploit Steele long after he reached adulthood, working his sympathies, playing the gratitude card time and again in an effort to get his hooks back into him. That was what she'd always thought.

What a shock it was to discover that she'd had it totally wrong. The reality was that Daniel had worked with all his might to repair the damage others had wrought in his son. And in a sense he'd succeeded. He was probably a major reason why Steele possessed the strength, the resilience, the warmest heart, of anyone she'd ever seen.

Warm enough to forgive her for five years of blindness?

She thought so. She hoped so. But still there were butterflies in her stomach while she showered, and the hands that wielded her blow dryer weren't quite as steady as usual.

It wasn't until they were nearly to Dublin that she began to relax. Her uneasiness had been misplaced; Steele's demeanor convinced her of it. Though the pensive, somber mood still weighed him down, and likely would for the near future, it hadn't rendered him uncommunicative. In fact, he was more accessible, more fully with her, than he had been at any time since their wedding on the fishing trawler. And that included the flight home from Mexico, and the flight to London, the train to Liverpool, and the brief interlude after their arrival at the castle.

There was only one blow-up of any significance, which occurred while he was maneuvering the car through Dublin's thronged streets. She was struck by how charming the city was and how little she'd noticed it on her previous visit. "Maybe we can come back one day next week so you can give me a tour," she suggested. "Show me all the places you used to hang out when you lived here."

"Excellent plan, except for one minor detail. I've never lived in Dublin."

"What are you talking about? I thought you were born here."

"Whatever gave you that idea?"

"You."

"Me? When?"

She wracked her brain. Strange. She'd always pounced on scraps of his history with alacrity, filing them away to be puzzled over later, recalling them accurately as needed. But this one refused to surface. "I don't remember off the top of my head," she said. "But I'm sure you did."

"Well, I wasn't. Born here, I mean."

His voice was curt. Undeterred, she asked, "Where were you born?"

Silence. She could tell by the set of his jaw that he was purposely avoiding her gaze. It was a replay of his reaction to her the previous day in Daniel's bedroom, the unmistakable hostility with which he'd lashed out at her. But she decided to press on in spite of it.

"Well?" she said.

"Nowhere you'd have heard of."

It was as if a door between them had slammed shut. She could almost hear the crash. They didn't speak again for the remainder of the drive or during his search for a parking spot along Upper Merrion Street.

But unlike yesterday, his rancor was short-lived. The proof was in the pressure of his hand at the small of her back as he guided her from the car to the restaurant. And it was there in the tilt of his wineglass, too, when he raised it to her at their secluded table at The Connacht Club. "To you," he said.

With a smile she gave him back his toast. "And you, Mr. Steele."

The combination of good wine, the quiet elegance enfolding them and the warmth she saw in Steele's eyes was having its effect. She exhaled a contented sigh and leaned against the back of the banquette. "This is nice."

"I thought you would approve. A cut above the Flamingo Club, eh?"

"Definitely. But I was talking more about you and me."

"Ah." He glanced up from the roll he was buttering. "Something specific? Or just 'you and me' in general?"

"The two of us alone for a change. It must be the first time since…well, I can't remember when. Except for upstairs at the castle the other day, but that doesn't count."

"It has been rather a crowded honeymoon, now that you bring it up. And some members of the crowd more welcome than others."

"A frenetic honeymoon, too. I feel like we've been living in the middle of a Roadrunner cartoon."

"Or _It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World_. United Artists, cast of thousands, 1963."

She laughed. "Exactly. Although…maybe it hasn't been such a bad thing."

"Not a bad thing?" He lifted an eyebrow. "Laura. An old adversary bent on revenge? A former lover attempting blackmail? Assorted Mexican bandits, American agents, British traitors, shady feminine accomplices, Russian spies and Irish servants? All standing between us and the bedroom door?"

"I'm not saying it's been an ideal situation. Or that I've enjoyed it. But at least we're on the same side again."

She could tell by his expression that he wasn't certain what she was talking about, and was afraid he wasn't going to like it when he figured it out.

"You've got to admit, we weren't getting along very well back home," she explained. "Even before the fiasco with Clarissa. We were mad at each other, and neither of us was willing to back down from it. I think we'd still be competing to see who could keep up the silent treatment the longest, if all hell hadn't broken loose."

She had to hand it to him: he had the grace to look sheepish, dropping his eyes briefly before saying, "I suppose we were practicing our mutual avoidance patterns. So to speak."

"We were fighting," she corrected him bluntly. "And you know what the stupidest part is? I don't even remember why. Do you?"

"The reasons are a little hazy."

It was hard to discern whether he was being honest or not. It usually was, with Steele. Part of her was ready to wade into it right then and there to get to the bottom of it. She had a pretty good idea that he'd been the instigator, back in Los Angeles; she couldn't let it pass without calling him on it.

Just in time, she restrained the retort that was hovering on her lips. What did it matter, anyway, which of them was at fault? Did she really want to open up that can of worms again? To regress to the finger-pointing, the one-upmanship, the petty game-playing? To mess up the progress they'd made earlier that day? To risk another quarrel, maybe worse than the one in question, distance, separation, loss?

Or could they learn some lessons from Daniel's life and death, and be smart enough to apply them to their relationship?

She gazed at the man across from her, really looked at him, through the lens of everything he'd revealed that day. And knew he was worth more to her than the satisfaction of proving herself the winner in the argument.

So she said: "Then it's probably not important enough for us to revisit. What do think, Mr. Steele? Should we call a retroactive truce and leave it at that?" And she extended her hand for him shake.

Which he did, albeit with a quirk of puzzlement. Turning serious, she added, "This is obviously a bit after the fact, but here goes." A pause to make sure she had his full attention. "Whatever I did to make you angry, I'm sorry. I wish I'd said it sooner, but…" She left the sentence unfinished, capping it with an embarrassed shrug.

Of the peculiar mix of emotions that crossed his face, the plainest were astonishment and gratitude. "So do I. Wish I'd said it sooner. And I'm sorry, too. For everything."

What followed was one of those weird moments of deep connection that sometimes wove them together. It spurred her to stretch across the table to take his hand again. "I've missed you," she said.

It was a little unnerving, both the light that kindled in his eyes, and the joy the sight of it gave her.

After dinner they headed off for a retrospective of some old John Wayne westerns—not her preference, but she refrained from pointing that out to him. They'd missed the first feature, but the other two, _The Searchers_ and _The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance_, were surprisingly good. In any case, she would've sat through a lot worse if only for the pleasure of watching Steele completely absorbed, relaxed, his grief in abeyance for a few hours.

There wasn't much conversation on the way back to Ashford Castle, once he'd exhausted his enthusiastic commentary on the pictures they'd seen. So it startled her when he said, apropos of nothing, in the midst of a long silence: "Collooney."

"What?"

"It's where I was born. At least I think it is. Collooney, County Sligo, in the west."

A minute or two went by. When it became clear that he had no more to add, she reached up in the dark and touched her fingertips to his cheek.

The mood held as they passed through Glen Creagh and its outskirts, over the road to the castle, into its gates. In the outbuilding that served as a garage, Steele wrapped his arm around her waist and didn't remove it. They climbed the castle's main staircase companionably, their strides matching, in perfect synch.

But instead of following her into their room, he stopped outside. His hesitation was obvious, and her eyes flew to his face. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing. I'd like to walk for a while, that's all."

She felt a sharp stab of disappointment. Hoping it hadn't shown, she said lightly, "Are you sure? It's pretty dark out there."

"Laura. Have you forgotten who you're talking to? Eyes like a cat's, remember?" His tone almost matched hers in nonchalance, but not quite.

"Should I wait up?"

His gaze slid sideways from hers; he ran a hand back through his hair. "I'll probably be a long time."

Another postponement. Her heart sank a little further. At the rate they were going, they'd be celebrating their fiftieth anniversary before they had a real wedding night, exactly as he'd predicted.

Automatically the mask of indifference, the one that had screened her deepest feelings for five years, slipped down. With an offhand, "Okay. I'll see you in the morning," she turned away from him.

But she encountered an obstacle to pushing the bedroom door shut behind her. It was Steele following her in. "Laura, wait," he said.

And then he pulled her close and lowered his mouth to hers.

Arms around his neck, she held him tight. Was this an unspoken apology on his part? An assurance that he wasn't rejecting her? She didn't know. What it wasn't was a preliminary to making love. For while his kiss conveyed a world of tenderness, there was nothing whatever in it of demand.

When it ended, she curved her palm around his nape to keep him with her. "Soon?" she whispered against his lips.

"Soon," he whispered back.

Somehow, either the embrace or the promise—she wasn't sure which—made it easier to let him go.

She thought she'd have trouble settling down until he returned. She was right. For an untold length of time she lay waiting for him. It wasn't a development that made her happy; in fact she considered it with dismay. They'd only been sharing a bedroom for a week, and not consistently at that. Since when did his absence translate into insomnia for her?

At last he slipped into the room. The sounds of him moving around, shedding his clothes, putting on his pajamas, the rustle of the sheet as he lay down on the chaise, gradually eased the tension that gripped her. Lulled by the quiet rhythm of his breathing, she knew could sleep, too.

And she did.

* * *

The first thing Laura did after she went downstairs the next morning was to search out Mildred and pull her into a huddle in the library. "We need your help."

Five days of virtual inactivity had whetted Mildred's appetite for work. "You got it. What's up?"

"We have to start wrapping up Daniel's affairs, but Mr. Steele isn't ready to deal with it right now. Would you mind?"

"Are you kidding? I've been going nuts around here. No radio, no decent TV. Plus I've missed two episodes of _L.A. Law_."

Laura resisted the urge to say 'I told you so'. Mildred had insisted on accompanying them to Mexico and London, after all; her fate was on her own head.

"Anyway, I've got tons of time on my hands," Mildred went on. "So what are we talking?"

"Oh—the usual." Laura rattled off the list. "Think you can handle it by phone? It might be tough without a computer, but I do have this." And she produced Daniel's pocket diary and address book, discovered among his things but not yet disclosed to Steele, and handed it over.

Mildred gave its pages a rapid scan. "It'll be fine. I never had a computer at the fraud squad, either, when I first started."

"Great. And there's something else." It was hardly necessary, but Laura glanced around to ensure they were alone and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I want to surprise Mr. Steele. How would we go about putting up a monument for Daniel in London?"

Doubt immediately wrote itself on Mildred's face. "Oh, Mrs. Steele."

"What?"

"You sure about this? I mean, Chalmers is in Moscow by now. Putting up a headstone in London isn't gonna fool anyone, least of all him."

"I'm not trying to fool him. I want—It's just-" Laura struggled with the difficulty of putting it into words. "He misses him, Mildred. More than I would've believed. Pretty stupid of me, huh? Maybe it'll help him a little to see him remembered and honored. Besides…I owe it to him. And Daniel."

Thank God for Mildred: she didn't press for an explanation, not even for Laura's final comment, but only nodded in understanding. Laura could've kissed her for it. "I'll take care of it, hon," Mildred said. "We're just waiting for that Marissa Peters to call about the funeral, right? Soon as we know, I can get started."

Not two hours later, as if Mildred's words had conjured her up, Marissa finally phoned.

Apparently the delay in contacting them wasn't her fault, but due to some kind of breakdown in communication from Secretary Spaulding's office. This she related to Steele, who'd taken the call in the second-floor study. She'd only heard from Spaulding a few moments before.

There ensued a three-way discussion of sorts, with Steele relaying Marissa's side of it to Laura. Colonel Reginald Frobish, aka Sergei Kemovdov, had landed safely at Andrews Air Force Base at eleven o'clock the previous morning. They couldn't confirm the information, but operatives on the other side of the Iron Curtain reported that a funeral for Sergei Kemodov, hero of the State, was to be held in Moscow later that very day. And Daniel Chalmers—the code name for Sterling Fitch—had been welcomed in London by the MI5 as one of their own. Taken into custody and incarcerated, in other words.

It was at that point in the conversation that Steele fell silent. Ignoring Laura's questioning glance, he simply listened. On his brow was a frown that was growing increasingly black.

She recognized that look. "What is it?" she hissed.

He brushed her aside—literally lifted a hand and gently but firmly pushed her back a few inches. Several seconds went by. Then he said into the mouthpiece, "All right. We'll watch for it." A pause. "I know you did. Thanks for trying, at any rate."

He replaced the receiver; they faced each other across the desk that held the telephone. "What was that all about?" she demanded.

"Daniel's funeral? Military honors, horse-drawn caisson, a guard in full regalia?"

"What about it?"

"It's today. In-" he glanced at his watch "-twenty-five minutes, to be precise."

"Oh." At least there was a legitimate cause for his anger. "And you wanted to go?"

He shifted a little and looked away, pure Steele avoidance.

"You did, didn't you?"

"I don't know, damn it!" he snapped. "But I'd have liked the chance to decide for myself, instead of having it decided for me."

"Well, why didn't you say something?"

No reply. That was because he'd pivoted without warning and was striding away from her.

Just as she had last night, though with markedly less encouragement, she kept pace with him. "Why didn't you?" she repeated. "It would've been easy enough to go over for the day. All you had to do was speak up."

"He said to wait!"

"Who did?"

He banged through the door of their bedroom with her right on his heels. "Spaulding! I told you about it. There was a chance the Russians were bugging the castle, he said. It would be safer for him to contact us, he said! It was low on his list of priorities, obviously. The bloody-!"

Red-faced, he bit back on the last words. He was pacing up and down in that way he had—his release for pent-up emotion when there was no other outlet. Usually she left him to it at times like these. It exasperated her to stand by while he exhausted himself, wasting precious time and energy he could've otherwise devoted to solving the problem at hand.

This time, arms folded, she sat down on the chaise to see it through.

The rage was quickly spent. A few more turns around the room, and he halted and looked at her. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You're entitled."

"Oh, I don't know about that." He came and sat beside her, hand on her knee. "I shouldn't be taking it out on you. You're the last person."

She slipped her arms around him. "All right," she said.

"Anyway, all's not lost. Marissa's discovered that the BBC's covering the funeral, and RTÉ's taken an interest."

"RTÉ?"

"The Irish television network. The Glen Creagh connection's a draw, apparently. They'll run the story tonight on the seven o'clock news."

"So you won't miss the funeral altogether."

"I suppose a glimpse is better than nothing." His tone very dry, he added, "Have you seen the paper, by the way? They've identified Fitch as the double agent and fully exonerated our Antony in the process. No doubt they'll be unleashing him on the unsuspecting populace soon."

The remark barely registered. She was thinking—worrying, to be honest—about Steele, and the hours that stretched between now and seven, and the castle's the lack of distraction. "What do we do in the meantime?" she asked abruptly.

"About Antony?"

"Until the news comes on. Hang around waiting?"

"Actually…" For a beat or two he seemed to be weighing something. His gaze was hard to read, but she thought she saw in it hesitation, and, underneath, a kind of speculative quality. It occurred to her suddenly that he was trying to make up his mind about her.

Whatever the conflict was, he must've decided it in her favor, for he said, "Actually, there's something I've wanted to show you. I couldn't have stood to be cooped up here today, as it was."

"Will it take your mind off the funeral?"

"It'll kill a few hours, yes."

"Okay."

He stood and reached down for her; with her hand in his, he pulled her to her feet.

"Let's go for a ride, Mrs. Steele," he said.

* * *

The route Steele took in the rental car was the now-familiar westbound road towards Glen Creagh and the highway to Dublin. Instead of making a right turn as they entered the village, however, he continued straight on. In a very short while they'd passed through and left it behind them.

Withdrawn into himself again, he'd expounded no further on their destination, which meant she could only wait and wonder. The mystery deepened as they penetrated a little farther into the countryside. It was green and gentle, despite the unseasonable cold, but empty of habitation. Laura knit her brow. It wasn't like Steele to take her sightseeing in the country; he hated it as much as she did. What had attracted him to this unremarkable rural landscape, she couldn't imagine.

Presently they came up on another village, as old as Glen Creagh, but grimmer, more hard-scrabble and tumbledown. "Glen Caron," he replied to her unspoken question.

About a half mile beyond Glen Caron's outskirts, he headed south on what was little more than a cart-track. After a few minutes of bumping up and down the ruts, he pulled up before a collection of buildings and stopped the car.

From the shelter of the passenger seat Laura surveyed the structures before her. She would have been hard-pressed to apply the title of 'house' to any of them. The nearest was rambling, barely a story high, and built of materials she couldn't identify. The walls were formed of whitewashed granite, or maybe concrete, cracked in places and mud-stained; the roof was dark and shaggy, and weeds sprouted liberally on it. Against the outer walls on both sides staggered a rough stone chimney. Could the mortar really be mud, as it appeared to be? The few four-paned windows were small and filthy, set into peeling frames.

The other three buildings were smaller and set farther back from the road. Sheds, most likely. If anything, they were more decrepit than the house. Surrounding the whole was the remnant of a low stone wall, intact in a few places, no more than a pile of rubble in others.

Meanwhile Steele had rounded the front of the car and was opening the passenger door. "It's deserted," he said, taking her hand. "Come on. It's okay."

She couldn't believe his plan was to usher her into the house, but that was exactly what he did. Inside were the most primitive living conditions she'd ever seen. No floors, except the stone foundation on which the house was built. Old newspapers stuffed into cracks around the windows to keep out the cold. Holes in the ceiling of the main rooms that meant the only source of heat had been stoves and fireplaces. And the hand pump over the kitchen sink, instead of the faucet and taps she expected, explained the absence of a bathroom, and the purpose for one of the small sheds in the yard.

It took no time at all to make a circuit of the rooms, and soon they were out in the sunshine again. In silent accord they headed for an undamaged section of the wall and sat down.

"Appalling, isn't it?" said Steele.

She gazed at him, relieved that he'd said it so she didn't have to. Funny, but she was leery of saying too much about the house, of giving him offense, afraid he'd take it as an insult to his homeland. And there was a hunch rising in her, as well, that maybe he'd brought her here because at sometime or another he'd lived in-

"I grew up in hovels just like this, Laura," he said. "From the time I was small until I was nine." His voice was casual, matter-of-fact.

She did her best to imitate it. "Was that in Coll—what was it again? Collowden?"

"Collooney. For a while. I was jumped around willy-nilly in those days, between Collooney and Ballygawley and Kilross and back again. A few times things got better with a move, marginally. More often they got worse."

She nodded. She knew now just what that meant, and it was a miserable thing, all right. "And when you were nine?"

"Paddy Gallagher found work in Sligo—a big city to me, in those days. It was the first I lived in a house with an indoor lav."

It wasn't a plea for sympathy; he was simply stating the bare facts. That was probably why pity for him was bringing a lump to her throat. There was a particular word for his attitude at this moment. She fished around for it. _Gallant_. Yes, that was it. Not a description she would've applied often to Mr. Steele over the years, but in this situation it suited him.

"Would you tell me something?" she said.

"I might. Within reason."

"Why did you bring me here?"

"Show you what you're letting yourself in for by becoming Mrs. Steele?" It was a ghost of the old, flippant Steele.

"Mr. Steele."

His eyes held hers, as intense as she'd ever seen them. "Because," he said. "Now that you know the truth, I want you to know it all. They weren't charming misty villages, the places I've lived, _Finian's Rainbow_ or _Darby O'Gill and the Little People_. No more than I was some noble little Oliver Twist in London, before Daniel. I fought. I picked pockets. I stole. You'd have given me a wide berth back then, Laura, and you'd have been right to. Except…I never picked on anyone smaller than me or weaker. And never once did I lay a hand on a girl." For the first time, his voice wavered a little. "This is part of who I am," he whispered. "I can't change it."

"I don't want you to." She frowned, but only because she was still doing battle with that lump in her throat. "I wish-"

"You wish-?"

"I wish you had some good memories, too."

"I do. At least, I think I do…I remember my mother, I think."

She let out a little gasp. "You never told me that."

"I've never told anyone."

"Not even Daniel?"

"Not even him." He picked up her hand. "I was only two when she died, so they said. So the details are…a bit hazy. Her pegging the wash out on the line. Me holding the clothespins. She smelled like the wash, I remember, fresh and clean. So do you."

She pressed his hand between hers, and listened.

"…I was putting on a pair of shoes, and she bent down to buckle them, and I touched her hair. It was black, and shiny. Like mine, but prettier."

"Do you remember what she looked like?"

"I can't see her face. Odd, isn't it? But I can feel her holding me on her lap, and I can hear her voice. She'd fixed me bread and jam, you see, and she said, 'Come to Mam, my love, my lovely boy', and picked me up."

He stopped speaking, and looked down at his feet, and she thought he was regretting that he'd been honest with her. It hurt, thinking that. But then he said: "Of course, I might've imagined it. You don't suppose I did, do you?"

"No." She swallowed against the lump. "No, Mr. Steele. I don't think you did."

"Neither do I." He breathed it out on a long sigh.

She didn't see it coming, what happened next. After all, Steele had such excellent reflexes. Before she knew what he was about, he had her in his arms and was kissing her—kissing her in a way he hadn't in weeks, his hands as eloquent on her as his mouth was, caressing her face, stroking her hair. The embrace lasted a long time.

When coherent thought was possible again, she was clinging to his waist, her head on his shoulder. From that position she could hear his heart, its strong, steady beat just beginning to slow.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"A little past four."

"Is it over, do you think?"

Of course he knew she was referring to Daniel's funeral. "It ought to be by now. And we should be getting back."

It was as they were heading to the car that she said softly to him, "Only three more hours to go, Mr. Steele."

He didn't say anything, only slipped his arm around her and held her hard.

Just as he held her hand for the entire ride back to the castle.

TO BE CONTINUED


	4. Chapter 4

Part 4

Had he done it at last? Steele wondered.

Had he finally shown Laura, the person closest to him than anyone in the world, how he felt for her?

So badly did he want the answer, he was almost tempted to wake her and ask. But he managed to squash the impulse in time. He was far too happy with the current state of affairs--Laura in his arms, head on his shoulder, completely, trustfully abandoned to him and sleep--to take the chance of mucking it up.

So he laid in the silk-curtained bed in the great master bedchamber, and replayed his memories of the night, and wondered.

Lord knew it was what he'd set out to do, prove his feelings to her. That was the reason he'd wanted her at his side to watch the news report on Daniel's funeral. But only part of it. For he couldn't deny he needed her there, as well, for his own sake, to get him through it.

Did she have any clue about it, the strength he'd drawn from her, from the fact that she moved so willingly into his arms, from the understanding in her dark eyes, her compassionate silence? He doubted it. Because over the years he'd perfected a mask to guard against displays of emotion that could make him vulnerable. And Laura, brilliant and intuitive though she was, wasn't quite good enough to pierce it.

Even though he wanted her to.

When the news was over, he'd seized the moment, almost literally, by picking her up and carrying her from the sitting room. Entirely unplanned, it had been, an instinctive response to her rising from his lap and extending her hand to him. At long last they were on the same page; she'd made it plain that she wanted him. How could he let the opportunity pass? He'd been determined not to squander it as they had so many others.

And still circumstances had seemed to conspire against them! With their destination near at hand, a mere flight of stairs away, the phone had rung, halting them in their tracks. Intuition had told him it was that troublemaker, Roselli. He'd been on the verge of snatching up the handset and outlining in precise terms what action he'd take if the filthy wife-stealer didn't leave Laura alone. But the warmth of her mouth on his had persuaded him to leave it up to her. She certainly hadn't looked or felt to him like a woman troubled by divided loyalties. He could trust her.

Yes, he could trust her to get rid of Roselli. It was what he'd told himself repeatedly while turning down the bedcovers in the master suite by the light of a small table lamp. Hadn't she proven it by her behavior over the past few days? How many chances had she had to defend the other man, if she'd cared to? Several. And she'd taken none of them. Roselli's continuing pursuit of Laura was proof of one thing only, Roselli's feelings, nothing more.

Problem was, the wife-stealer was also a persistent bugger incapable of accepting rejection. No sooner had Laura hung up the phone than he had rung her again. Meeting her on the stairs, Steele had struggled with a familiar flare of suspicion. Was there something shifty, after all, in the depths of her candid brown eyes? But she had refused so resolutely to answer the phone, and had kissed him, Steele, with such ardor, that the little flicker died away. He'd swept her up again and borne her the rest of the way to the bedroom.

On another night he would've headed straight for the bed with her. But setting her on her feet was more appropriate somehow. She seemed to want that, too. Arms wrapped around one another, they'd lingered near the doorway, lost in one another's eyes.

It was with a shock of delight that Steele read what he did in Laura's.

She was seeing _him_. She was seeing him for who he was. Not the man she'd invented and hoped he would become; not the man he'd presented himself to be. She was seeing him, the man with no name, his humble beginnings, and his starved, shriveled childhood, the shady life he'd lived, the lack of any credentials that would mark him as successful and respectable.

The person he trusted more than anyone in the world knew the truth about him. And wanted him anyway.

He whispered her name, took her face in his hands, and kissed her.

As she had downstairs, she pulled back from the kiss. It was for the same reason, to slip her hand into his and then lead him towards the bed. It had made him smile, her forthrightness; it was one of the things he loved about her. No matter what happened between them tonight, he hoped it would never change.

And then he was reclining on the bed, and she was in his arms, and there was no leader and no follower, but only him and Laura, without a case to pursue, and no one shooting at them, no fires at the agency to put out, and no Mildred to intrude.

At length he'd released her and sprung up to douse the lamp he'd lit earlier and forgotten. By the time he'd returned, she was perched on the edge of the bed, taking off her shoes and socks.

Quickly he'd moved to copy her and then skinned out of his pullover. But with his turtleneck only partway tugged from the waistband of his corduroys, he paused.

Laura was unzipping her own slacks. He'd watched while she stepped out of them.

Couldn't look away from her, in fact, not from this moment for which he'd waited five long years.

In the act of pulling her sweater over her head, she'd caught his gaze on her. And smiled. And, still looking him in the eye, had finished shedding the sweater and put it aside and shaken back her hair.

There was nothing reticent or bashful about her as her lingerie followed. Instead she continued to regard him with that warm, direct gaze: a beautiful woman, confident in her power to attract, making ready to give herself to the man she'd chosen.

He'd never beheld a more breathtaking sight in his life.

He'd raced to finish undressing, himself, fumbling in his eagerness. So much for the suave, smooth, dashing figure he'd hoped to cut. But if Laura was disappointed, or even noticed, she'd given no sign of it. As impatient to be in his embrace as he was to have her there, he'd have said of her, as she wrapped herself around him and raised her face to his.

She was so small! That was the dominant impression that had arisen with the host of surprising sensations they'd roused in one another. It wasn't a new discovery; he'd once made the mistake of calling her a 'delicate creature', to her manifest disgust. But it struck him afresh as they came together on the bed. He was used to women who were taller, broader at the shoulder and hip, his preferences in the old days having run towards the Junoesque. Astonishing how this slip of a lass had altered his perception of beauty so thoroughly. She was his standard now. Nor was there any question in his mind that she would match him move for move tonight, the perfect partner for him in every respect, despite the physical disparities.

All the same, he'd taken extra care in settling his weight upon her. "It's all right, isn't it? I'm not too heavy for you?"

The radiance of her smile dazzled him. "You feel incredible. Stay right where you are." And the way she'd held him to her had left him in no doubt that she meant what she said.

As did the way she responded to his kisses, and kissed him in her turn, and the way her body seemed to open under his hands like a flower, and the obvious delight she took in awakening his body with her touch.

Of course they'd had to negotiate the awkwardness that came with learning about one another sexually. She'd made it easy, teasing and laughing with him while they experimented. Their banter flowed throughout as naturally as ever, except that intimacy had infused it with a new dimension of tenderness.

And before long their actions and responses had begun to mesh, no longer so clumsy, and then they'd found it: the spark, the heat, the pulse-pounding tension, the awesome sweetness of release. They'd forfeited none of it by waiting all these years. How that could be, he couldn't begin to understand, let alone explain. He only knew it was lovely.

Lovely. She'd been that from the first moment to the last. It was what he sighed in her ear as they rode the high together for the first time: "Laura, my love…so lovely…"

And on they'd gone, wringing every possible second of joy out of the night that had stretched out before them, uninterrupted.

And yet…and yet…had she understood what it meant to him? What _she _meant to him? That years ago it had become infinitely more to him than a mere wink and tumble—that she was the love of his life--but he hadn't the least idea how to say it?

Now was the time to be honest with himself if ever there was one. He looked the truth in the eye, faced it squarely. He, the master of physical nuances, the man to whom the slightest variation in gesture, expression and inflection spoke volumes, had seen nothing in Laura's reactions tonight that told him he'd succeeded in showing her.

The discouragement that assailed him was so acute, it was as if his heart dropped into his shoes. Or it would have been, if he were wearing any.

Immediately he rallied. Well, then, mate, he said to himself. Perhaps you'll just have to tell her.

Tell her?

He had turned the idea over in his mind for a few minutes before it hit him that it hadn't provoked the apprehension in him that it usually did. Quite the contrary. He was—he couldn't believe it!--he was _looking forward to it_.

Of course he was. One glance at the beautiful woman asleep in his arms was enough to tell him why.

Laura. His love.

How absolutely absurd that he'd been so frightened of the words, and that he'd waited so long to say them.

Sleep was beginning to overtake him. He made sure she was spooned comfortably in the curve of his body—God, it was good to have her there—folded his arms around her, and settled himself down.

And his last conscious thought, before he gave himself over to slumber as fully as Laura had, was typical Steele:

Tomorrow was going to be an interesting day, indeed.

FINIS

Next Installment:

_Steele Inseparable V:_ "Notoriously, Steele"


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